The Poetry Marathon

Upstairs

Everything I need is upstairs
when I’m downstairs. A full flight
of stairs is exactly what happened
when I was rushing off to work,
arms full, pocketbook that seemed
lined with bricks, tote bag brimming
with essentials, and I’m late for work.

As if the steps are made of ice, I fly,
arms flapping, bags dropping, feet
pirouetting out-of-balance and I crash
land on the side of the stairs. How I got
there, I’ll never know. Our inquisitive dog,
Snapple, standing over me, asking
“What are you doing on my floor, Mommy?”
I don’t know sweetie but it’s not good.

I sat on the stairs for a little while
before getting up, limping a little,
and going to work. Not good.
A few hours later, I’m at urgent care
shaking my head in disbelief. I broke
my knee. It’s the day before Halloween
and I’m hosting a poetry costume party
the next day. My costume: a bride
and with my bruised knee and swollen ankle,
I could be Frankenstein’s mate. X-rays say
stay off it but it’s poetry, I’m the host,
and I can’t. Cocktail length skirt shows
my brace but that’s ok. My husband knows
when it comes to poetry, it’s useless to protest.

Later, at home, not good. I am miserable.
Every blasted thing I need is upstairs
because I am trapped downstairs. I try
to improvise, use calendar boxes as
a haiku journal, but the pen leaks blotches.
Paul had to run some errands so it’s me
and Snapple. I finally find the courage to crawl
backwards up the stairs. It took an eternity
to figure out how to get off the floor in the hall
but I did it; Snapple helped. Bliss. Upstairs,
my pillow, my bed, pens and journals, it’s good
until Snapple has to go out. Urgent.

Useless to cajole Snapple, I ride the stairs down
like a playground slide, collide with the front door
just as Paul opens it. Not good. Now, I’m strapped
in the recliner, stacks of pens and paper beside me,
my pillow under my head, Snapple sleeping
next to the chair guarding my every move,
and no way I’m going upstairs for a long long time
and, I confess, that’s good.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 10

Downstairs

Bedroom on the second floor, laundry
in the basement, two flights of stairs carting
baskets of dirty laundry down to sort and stuff
in the washer, detergent, softener, check the timer
and back upstairs.

First floor kitchen, dining room, living room
and a bathroom screaming to be scrubbed. While
the clothes agitate, I reach for the spray cleaner;
bottle is empty. I climb stairs to the bathroom
on the second floor, grab the cleaner, descend again,
start to clean the bathroom when I think I hear
the done signal from the washer; go down to find
13 minutes left on the cycle. I could stand there
but instead go up, see a sink full of dishes, open
the dishwasher to find it is full of clean dishes. Sigh.
I put them away, pack it, fill it with soap, press start.

For some strange reason, I’m still holding the bottle
of bathroom cleaner; I go back upstairs, figure I might
as well clean this bathroom, not remembering I didn’t
finish the downstairs one. I turn on the showerhead
to rinse the tile and nothing happens. No water,
a loud gurgling but no water.

I hear a loud sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard –
something like a garbage truck crashing into
a snowplow with a thousand panes of glass
between them. I race down the stairs, dishwasher
stopped mid-cycle and another groaning growling
sheet-metal shredding war with monster trucks
sends me soaring down the stairs and there,
water water water water water everywhere
water capped in soap bubbles undulating like
an angry tide, a waterfall cascading up over
and behind the washer.

Slippers sopping, knees complaining, I trudge upstairs,
find the plumber’s number, unleash a frantic plea
please please please please emergency, says he’ll be
right there. Back downstairs, waves are cresting;
useless to try to do anything, I go back up, wait
at the door. It seems years but he pulls up, I direct him
down, I go up, first-floor bathroom tiles covered in foam.
I slam the bathroom door shut, peek down the stairs
into the basement, hear him curse, go up to find more tiles
foaming, slam that door and go down to the kitchen.
I open the glass cabinet; empty. I get a paper cup
from the bathroom, fill it with vodka and go outside
with the bottle to sit on the deck. Soiled clothes still grimy;
both bathrooms grubby; dishwasher stacked with dirty dishes.
I vow to sell the house, buy a ranch with no basement,
hire a cleaning service, and send my laundry to the cleaners.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 9

Sutures

Sometimes,
my head fills
with anger, festers
toxic wounds, scars
scab a paralyzing fear;
I feel like my inner seams
are ripping apart.

That’s when
I take pen to paper
allow myself to bleed
onto the page, let it seep
into creases to form words
and the poetry stitches me up
helps me heal.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 8

Virtual Timing

Phone has been a silent sentry
for weeks into this pandemic,
robo callers extinct for lack of work.
I’m on a Zoom poetry reading,
mic on to read my poem at the open,
and you guessed it, my phone rings.
Not my cell phone at my elbow that
I can click off but the house phone,
too far to reach to press the red
shut-up button, and so I read my poem.

A few days later, the host sends
a video of the reading; so nice to hear
the features again, phrases I missed,
narratives to relive and savor, and then
there’s the open. Too anxious to wait,
I fast forward to me, hear the phone
loud as Big Ben at midnight and again
cringe at virtual timing.

What I missed the first time now
makes me chuckle. Several poets
get up, checking their phones, sighing
before returning to their virtual square
on the screen. I want to shout “It was me,
my phone rang – so sorry to interrupt”
but I know it’s too late for that.

Two days later, I attend another reading,
my time at the open mic, I hold my breath
that the phone will not ring and it doesn’t.
Instead, Snickers, our watchdog,
starts a chorus of barking, joined by
our other dog, Ruffles, just as I start reading.
No way to shut the door, tell them to shut up,
I just read my poem through gritted teeth
at the sheer injustice of virtual timing.

I’m the last reader, we say goodbye, click off
quick and clean; dogs still barking an alarm,
I race to look out the window and smile
to see three baby bunnies running in circles
to catch each other, a hopping game of tag,
so cute, so small, so clear why the dogs
are alerting me.

When the video arrives in my inbox,
I click off without watching it; instead,
I sit watching our front lawn for bunnies,
the dogs quiet beside me.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 7

Genius At Work

My desk is littered with lists
do this by then, that before when,
remember this, don’t forget that
and when I need to find the thing
that is chomping at my to-do clock,
that thing I know I need to do now,
the thing I can’t remember what
maybe even why, I can’t find it.

Scraps of paper stack up in wild piles
a Jenga game gone wrong from the start;
when I sweep them up to neaten them,
towers topple, pages take wing, fly
to freedom under/behind the bookcase
or line the floor like errant throw rugs
with verse fragments written on them,
poetic lines to find a place for, grocery
lists from last month.

I get distracted by too-small scripted words
that mimic extinct birds flying overhead,
scrawled words with exclamation marks,
clouds and stars signaling their hierarchy
on the wow-write-this-now-scale,
or hieroglyphics of pyramid proportions
that keep me inspired for hours, writing
about what I think I was jotting down
but most times just writing and writing.

I’m a list maker, no reforming me.
I never toss them, they span decades
of do this and I didn’t, go there before
and I missed it, don’t forget and I did.
My friend tells me to use a calendar
to jot down important dates and info but
I have yet to find a calendar with boxes
big enough to hold the reams of written-
on stacks that keep my desk useful.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 6

Metaphoric to Sink Your Teeth Into

A friend recently said
poetry is like a tube of toothpaste.
That’s it, that’s all he said.

I told a friend that this friend
said this about poetry
and she said, that’s ridiculous.

Perhaps, but I get it.
Once poetry is squeezed out,
you can’t put it back.

Once a person writes a poem
they become a poet.
Once a poet, always a poet.

Once a poem is read,
you can’t pack it back up
and shove it into the tube.

No cramming your words
back in when they are set free
spread wings and fly.

And, anyway, why would you want
to stifle inspiration, flavored and
fluorided to prevent gingivitis.

Next time you hold that tube
in your hands, think about how
your words will be minty fresh,

your verses scrubbed to remove tartar
of dull words and lackluster images,
similes like a bright shiny smile, and

promote oral hygiene, reduce the plaque
of quotes that plague your epigraphs
with common clichés.

Next time you squeeze that tube,
imagine newbie poems waiting to fill
your mouth and mind with dentrific brilliance.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 5

Zoom Bomb

In these pandemic times
our poetry events are virtual,
Hollywood Square boxes
with smiling faces waiting
for feature poets, open mic,
a chance to chat at the end.

Last night, I was a feature,
wore a sparkly purple top,
matching eyeliner and shadow,
mascara and a hint of violet
on my lips, gold dangle earrings
and I was ready for my close-up.

Not long after assembling
in our Zoom Room, we were bombed.
I had heard of it happening but this
was my first raid. It was horrid,
fuzzy video but enough seen,
depraved audio that flushed my cheeks,
turned my stomach, made me gasp on mic.
How could he, such debase verbiage,
taunting to shut down our meeting,
and then he was joined by another guy
and then, a female.

Our host was remarkable, cool and
calm efficient, muting the diatribes,
ushering them out, zooming to slam
the virtual door – she was our hero;
we resumed our poetry event, which was
an amazing assemblage of poets from
around the world, over 40 participants
with the open mic.

Perhaps the raiders would be disappointed
to learn that they didn’t stop our event,
didn’t crush our spirit, didn’t destroy
our human sense of ethics with their trash talk.
I do wonder how empty their lives must be
that bombing a Zoom poetry event
is how they get their kicks.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 4

You

are gone.
I know this
accept this
but sometimes
when I wake up
at 3 in the morning
I think it is noon
and that it was all
a dream
a nightmare
a Hollywood script
read line by line
the knife gun chainsaw
just a prop
the pool of blood
watered-down ketchup
the closing notes
a familiar top 10 hit.

Still awake at 4
I realize
there was no blood
no weapon
no music
no dream
just the nightmare truth
that you are gone.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 3

Pump

Irresistible – how could I not
buy those purple snakeskin pumps
with the black patent leather platform
and 5-inch stiletto heel. Stunning,
and a divine sign – one pair left
and my size, discounted, clearance,
whatever. I had to have them.

I strolled through the shoe department
wearing them, admonished to
please stay on the carpet
by the male clerk who seemed to have a tad
too much interest in shoes, or was it just
this pair, fondling the round peep-toe,
sliding his fingers up and down the heel shaft
before slipping it so gracefully on my foot,
me feeling like Cinderella until I noticed
that odd look clouding his bourbon brown eyes.

I walked, pranced, sauntered past floor mirrors
admiring the curves that hugged my heel,
supple leather on my instep, so bold, so brazen
a towering stiletto. I swooned, he raced over,
his hands firm on my forearm as though I might
topple. He guided me back to my seat, slow
and sensuous slipping off my foot, I was
unCinderelled, felt naked without those pumps.
He smiled, or was it a leer.

I nearly broke a nail slapping my credit card
on the counter, hugged the bag through the mall
to my car, raced home, walked half a mile
from kitchen to living room to dining room,
avoiding the steps, just a little too soon
to climb in these sumptuous creations.

Now, a month later, I pull the bag from
the closet floor, open the box, put them on
and runway through my bedroom, hallway,
but not venturing downstairs, still too soon.
Someday, I will wear them outside, scratch
the soles on concrete, see sunlight sparkle
snakeskin, but for now, this is enough.

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 2

Beginning

Today is my new day, a me day,
a starting over renewal to improve
myself, remake my internal image
from the outside in, inside out.

After a sprinting 4 or 5 mile ride
on my bedroom bike, I’ll shower,
slather coconut-scented conditioner
on my long hair, leave it pinned up
while I give myself a facial, slices
of cucumber for my eyes, reclining
in a tv-less room.

I’ll spend the day in a bathing suit
though the forecast is for all-day rain.
My face scrubbed clean, I’ll read –
an old best-seller cover to cover,
and I’ll flip through a delicious stack
of friends’ poetry books and read
random selections, savoring images
and metaphors I wish I’d written myself.

In between, I’ll write poetry of course.
An entire day to empty my head of
reminders to make appointments and
phone calls, emails to send, cards
to pen, laundry to do – but I won’t do
any of that today.

It’s a me day. I’ll give myself a pedicure,
polish with a new glow-in-the-dark purple
so I can see my summer toes when sleep
defeats my need for it. I’ll paint my nails
with pictures on each one, summer scenes
at the beach, a sailboat, lighthouse, ocean.

I’ll drink coffee all day, stay up all night
and not worry that caffeine is the culprit.
Maybe I’ll raid my emergency stash
of dark chocolates, imbibe with just one
glass of wine. Perhaps two if I need to.

Today, I’ll cater to me, purge out the old
doubts and fears that I can’t do something
anything, begin again fresh, fill my head
with glimmering new-year’s-new possibilities.
So tomorrow, tell me, what can I do for you?

~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 1